


Please Transfer Your Call (Or Take Matters Into Your Own Hands)

by MoltenPanini



Category: Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark Humor (Regarding The Ending), Descriptions of Anxiety, Does Nick Have A Car? Who Knows, I Also Wrote This In Late 2019 But Better Late Than Never, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Jay Gatsby Lives, M/M, Minor Character Death, Obligatory 'I Wrote This For An English Assignment', Oops Gatsby Has Depression Now, POV First Person, Unfortunately Myrtle and George Do Not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 04:22:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29911383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoltenPanini/pseuds/MoltenPanini
Summary: While at his office, Nick rings for Gatsby as promised. Gatsby doesn't pick up. Panic sets in.(Set directly after page 155)
Relationships: Nick Carraway & Jay Gatsby, Nick Carraway/Jay Gatsby
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	Please Transfer Your Call (Or Take Matters Into Your Own Hands)

I hung up the phone, frustrated with Jordan’s apathy, and wheeled away from my desk. For a moment I tried to calm down, attempting to keep my growing bitterness at bay, but I ultimately failed and became thoroughly peeved. I needed someone to distract me from the arrogance and selfishness that was Jordan Baker. How could she only think of how I acted towards her when there was a woman who had just been killed? I cared for her, I truly did, but I couldn’t believe the disinterest she had towards the whole situation. Noticing the clock, which read two ‘till noon and reminded me of a certain call I promised to make, I scooted back to the table and reached for the dial.

…

The fourth time I tried to call Gatsby, I heard the line get picked up. My relief was quickly snuffed as a rather annoyed operator huffed that the line was only open for a long distance call, and quite rudely added, in not so few words, to stop bothering him and quit calling the number. Aggravated, I gave a snide ‘thank you’ and barely kept from slamming the phone against the receiver. 

I sighed and sunk in my chair. So much for calming down. I assumed he was busy with a business matter or that he was chatting with Daisy. 

But he knew that I would call. Sure, he could have been preoccupied, but he always answered the phone right away, and why would the line be open if he was supposedly on it? 

Something, whether it was some divine force, or pure human instinct, or just another bout of anxiety, told me that I needed to check on Gatsby. Whatever compelled me was so intense and imminent that it nearly drove me to panic and run out of the office right then. I stayed in my chair, trying to reason myself out of the preposterous worry. Of course, I was never any good at talking myself down, so the feeling only grew and swirled about in my stomach; a wisp fermenting within me, making my mind and heart race while my body and arms trembled. It wasn’t an unfamiliar sensation, but it was so much more potent than a simple concern. 

Without thought, I stood, my still-asleep legs tingling while my chair rolled away with the exertion, and I bolted for the door, anxiety crawling throughout my person as I made my way to Gatsby’s mansion. Time seemed sluggish as I raced out of the building; it slowly ticked by in an almost mocking manner as I headed towards the train station.

…

I almost dropped my keys in the struggle to unlock the door and start the car. My hands continued to shake as they clenched the steering wheel, my knuckles whitening to a shade likely akin to my face. Even while speeding, the drive felt too long; the knowledge that I couldn’t do anything else only added to my increasing distress. Finally seeing the mansion in view, I abruptly braked and stopped the car on the side of the road. After the ignition spat out my keys, I threw open the door and staggered out of the vehicle, my heart pounding in my chest, throat, and ears. 

A mere few feet from my lawn laid Wilson’s prone body, still clutching the gun that put him there fervently in his grasp. Nervousness turned to dread as I rushed past the man, praying that he hadn’t thought to use the gun twice. I nearly tripped up the stairs, then fumbled with the door, where I proceeded to stumble on the next set of stairs as adrenaline and pure terror led me through the vast halls of the mansion. Reaching an open door, where light pooled out of the frame into the otherwise dark space, I slowed, quivering in anticipation as I entered the room. It was a large bedroom. Hunched over the side of the bed, his head resting in hands, sat Gatsby. He made no sound, nor any indication he had even heard me approach; the only movement he showed came in the form of shuttered and shallow breaths plaguing his body. 

“... Gatsby?” 

His head arose and turned suddenly towards me with a near bewildered expression upon his face. 

It felt so long that we stared shocked at each other, neither of us quite sure what to do or if this was even happening. The air was simultaneously heavy with tension and regret and light with relief and hope. Neither of us moved, not to blink or to breathe. It was suspensefully serene. Somehow, once I thought I composed myself, I found the ability to break the silence. 

“I tried to call, but you never answered. I thought…” 

My voice betrayed me. I cleared my throat and tried again.

“Wilson, he…”

Gatsby finally found his own voice. “I know,” he said solemnly, “He… I was at the pool when it happened. He saw me, and I suppose it was too much for him to handle. I watched him…” 

There was the paradoxical silence again. He slouched and looked away, resting his arms on his knees. 

“He was coming for me. He wanted me dead, and he wanted to be the one to kill me.” 

I stepped towards him, fear ebbing away into concern and sympathy. 

“I panicked and hid here. I’m sorry, I must’ve not heard the phone.” 

“How long ago was it?” I asked, taking another few tentative steps. I figured it was better to let him rant and wind down than to try and console him.

He shrugged impassively. “Five minutes? Thirty? An hour? Does it matter?” He chuckled; a broken kind of laugh that exposed just how tired he really was. It sounded more like a cry than anything. “He’s dead because I was careless and a fool. They’re both dead because of me.” 

I wanted to say that it wasn’t true. I wanted to tell him, either by gently explaining it or by slapping some sense into him, that he wasn’t the one who killed the Wilsons. He was a reason, sure, but he wasn’t the one who was driving the car, no matter how much he claimed that he did. He wasn’t the one who pointed the gun at the poor man and pulled the trigger. He did, however, interrupt me before I could begin.

“I tried to call Daisy afterwards. Did you know she and Tom had already left without a trace? No address, no number, nothing. They just packed up and drove off somewhere without telling anyone where they went.” 

Gatsby paused. 

“Now that I look back, I was kidding myself into thinking she would have stayed. I was an idiot to think she would choose me over him. I don’t think she looked back once.” 

I sat on the bed next to him, unsure on how to proceed. He didn’t react as the mattress shifted to accommodate my weight.

“The thing is, I don’t blame her. What, with all this unwanted attention and melodrama… how things between Tom and I could’ve led to more needless bloodshed… who would be foolish enough to want to stay?” 

Gingerly, I reached out to him. My hand sank into the plush fabric of the light blue robe he wore until it came to rest upon his shoulder. The touch seemed to bring him to a realization, as he perked up and turned to look at the contact point between us. His gaze slowly traveled up my arm to meet mine. 

“I suppose I would be the fool who would,” I murmured softly. 

He was stunned for a second, and for that second I felt my anxiety mix and swell with regret at what I had just confessed. He chuckled again, but it sounded much less painful than the first one. 

“You were wrong, old sport. About me being better than all of them put together,” Gatsby shook his head. “I’m no better than they are.”

“But, you? You’re far better than any of us ever were or could be.”

Now it was my turn to be dumbfounded. “Maybe so,” I started, forcing the nervousness out of my tone, “But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m not going anywhere. I’ve stuck through this far, why quit now? It wouldn’t do either of us any good if I up and left at a time like this.” 

He gave a small smile, and all of the anxiousness I had felt until then seemed to melt away. We stayed like that, grateful for the tranquility we had before everything caught up with us; appreciating the calm before the inevitable storm. We basked in each other’s company. Until, eventually, an important question popped into my mind. 

“Gatsby?”

“Yes, old sport?”

“Did you ever call the police about Wilson?”

**Author's Note:**

> Hello y'all! I wanted to go off of the 2013 movie's depiction of Nick actually calling Gatsby, but, you know, with a slightly happier and gayer ending. My ending's not as good as I'd like it to be, especially since this is my first completed fic, but that's what practice and more works are for, right? Anyway, I hope y'all enjoyed reading!


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